So Cold and So Sweet
by BeautifulXinXBlood
Summary: With a quick step, Martin made his way to Carolyn's desk to return his uniform, and placed a single sheet of paper delicately on top – his letter of resignation. It was as close to a note as someone like Martin could get. After all, he was giving up, wasn't he? trigger warnings for suicide and depression


**Unbeta-d piece of Martin whump. Because I needed to write it. That is all.**

**James Finnemore is nice enough to let me borrow the characters of Cabin Pressure every now and then provided I don't get paid for using them.**

**Similarly, The Band Perry wrote the lyrics. They are not mine, either.**

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**Cold and Sweet**

Martin was nothing if not pragmatic about his approach to… what he was about to do. About the thoughts scratching at the back of his mind almost constantly for, well, for some time now.

The landlord would be none the wiser, since Martin had already given notice and paid the last of his rent. Neither Simon nor Caitlin would suspect anything, as they never called, and he reciprocated that gesture. For that matter, Mum would be absolutely oblivious. They'd been a bit distance since… since Dad. The students would hardly catch on. He'd started moving his things from the attic room into the back of his van, so they would most likely just assume he was moving. It helped that he didn't really talk with them, or see them much. They'd be perfectly content with their assumptions.

When he walked into the port-a-cabin, he took a breath. The room was empty, as usual. After all, he did arrive far earlier than was expected. Often, he arrived this early to distract himself from hunger pangs or the deep sense of hopelessness he felt. That was most commonly the reason for filling out all the logbooks. If he spent all his time fussing over the details, he would not have any room left to think about other things.

With a quick step, Martin made his way to Carolyn's desk to return his uniform, and placed a single sheet of paper delicately on top – his letter of resignation. It was as close to a note as someone like Martin could get. After all, he was giving up, wasn't he? A quiet calm began to creep its way through his system, each part of the plan successfully carried out making his grim determination solidify into something dark and harrowing.

There were two reasons, he supposed, for driving out as far as he had. The first, the one he insisted was the most logical reason, and therefore the only one, was that it would be less likely for anyone he knew to find him. Or anyone, for that matter. The second, the one that was no stronger than a faint whisper, a small spark of something, was that someone would realize what has happening, and would at least try to do something. That notion he squashed down almost immediately. Who'd want to come rescue a pathetic, homeless failure of a pilot?

He parked the van in an abandoned car park two miles from his destination. He'd walk the remaining distance. Again, he would argue that it was to throw off whoever came looking, but it was two miles. Hopefully someone would – no. There was no one. His deafeningly silent mobile confirmed this single solitary fact.

The walk was quiet, peaceful. Dawn was bathing the town in golds and pinks, and there wasn't a single soul out on the streets. Everything was slowly waking, languidly coming into consciousness, and the dazzling details did not escape his notice. The mobile phone in his pocket, regrettably, did nothing to break that peace. Instead it weighed heavily in his pocket, a painful reminder that no one needed him, really, that no one cared, that he really was alone and this really was the only way to make everything stop. He chose to focus on surroundings so that he could silence his mind. Doubts and anxieties and loneliness and the weight of _everything_ threatened to stop him from doing _anything_.

His numbed body led him to the bridge as he took in every distracting detail from the surrounding buildings. When he realized this, he took another deep, calming breath and began removing things from his pockets. One by one, he threw them into the rushing waters below, estimating how far each item traveled before dropping in the next one. He dropped his wallet in first, all his identification cards swept away by the rushing, swirling current, then his watch, his van key, and finally, the horrifyingly silent mobile phone.

With a running start, he bounded over the railing and spread his arms wide. Time slowed down. He felt as though he was suspended in mid-air. For the few brief seconds he spent airborne, Martin finally felt relief. He was flying.

_So put on your best, boys_

_And I'll wear my pearls_

_What I never did is done…_


End file.
